


Mora'Dum

by LMA



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMA/pseuds/LMA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mora'Dum: the application of terror.  Every Ranger must experience it.  Even the Entil'Zha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mora'Dum

Mora'Dum

By Laura M. Appelbaum

 

“This is going to be exceptionally difficult, Chosen One. A serious challenge. He is not like most men.”  
“That is to be expected, Anla'Shok Na.”  
“More than that, his personal history clearly indicates that he will not be easily broken. Direct torture was demonstrably ineffective; the Wind Swords' best efforts failed to elicit more than the occasional groan. No information whatsoever was received despite their use of enhanced methods.”  
“He is quite leery of telepaths but he uses his keen intelligence as a countermeasure rather than responding with fear. And ultimately, he turns to anger to block them out. That is why the mind wipe was so difficult to perform.”  
“You know him best, Satai Delenn. What can you tell us from your personal observations of him?”  
“He has utterly no fear of personal injury or death. In fact, at times he has actively courted death. I have seen this repeatedly.”  
“No warrior fears death. That is not something special, as you Religious Caste members seem to think.”  
“No warrior admits to fearing death, Alyt, but we have both seen how many men, when face to face with that certainty, call out for their mothers.”  
“It pains me to admit it, F'hursna Sech, but yes, that is so.”  
“He has a mate; can we use that against him?”  
“Uncertain. But either way, she is out of reach on the Rim. And so again we turn to you, Satai Delenn.”  
“As we also saw on The Line, those things that most terrify others instead elicit rage. I do not believe in all the time I have known him, I have ever seen him truly frightened by anything.”  
“Ah, but by the time we are all through with Jeffrey David Sinclair, that will no longer be the case, will it, Delenn?”  
“No. Not if we succeed. In Valen's Name, no.”  
“Then at the last, we are all in agreement. With each other and with tradition.”  
“Yes, Alyt Neroon, on this point, Religious and Warrior, we stand together. If this thing is to be done, and it shall, it will be done correctly. With no mercy.”

XXX

“Jeffrey! Wake up Jeffrey!”  
“Wha …? Delenn? What are you doing here?” Sinclair declared as he bolted upright in his bed in Valen's house in Tuzanor.  
“There is no time to explain; we must hurry!”  
“What? Why? You're not making any sense!” he exclaimed, even as he darted to the chest for some clothes. He'd barely gotten on a long-sleeve t-shirt and fastened his pants before Delenn grabbed his arm frantically and began tugging him to the door. He'd never seen her like this before. Her panic confused him.  
“We have to get out of here before they come to take you away!”  
“Before who comes? To take me where?” he asked as they ran outside into the cold and moonless Minbari night.  
“We're too late! I'm sorry, Jeffrey, I tried ...” A group of men in black Warrior Caste uniforms, their faces hidden inside deep hoods emerged out of the darkness and Sinclair went on immediate alert, preparing for a fight. “I tried ...”  
“There they are! Seize them!” commanded a familiar voice from the gloom. Sinclair peered into the darkness and saw a sneering face he knew well.  
“Alyt Neroon?” He looked again to Delenn. “Will someone tell me what's going on?” The other Warriors slipped into position, surrounding the two of them. He could see there was a Vorlon with them and Sinclair appealed to him.  
“Ulkesh?”  
“They are here, Satai,” Neroon informed an approaching robed figure.   
“Delenn!” Rathenn scolded. “You were ordered not to interfere! The Council has spoken.”  
“Rathenn? What?” said Sinclair, shocked by the sight of the man he had so quickly come to think of as a friend in the midst of the ongoing madness. “What's happening?”  
“You will of course resist, I hope, Sinclair?” Neroon smiled evilly, his hand on the denn'bok at his waist. At that moment, two of the Warriors put their hands on Sinclair's biceps and he immediately shook himself free, then turned on one of them with his fists.  
“They will only hurt you, Jeffrey; it's useless; we're outnumbered!” Delenn cried as another pair grabbed hold of her. “Don't fight them! Jeffrey! Surrender!”  
“Like hell,” Sinclair growled, ducking and dodging and jabbing out with some small effect. But there were too many of them and they were too well-trained for any one man to elude, no matter how well and how ferociously he resisted. The last thing Sinclair would remember was the end of Neroon's pike striking him in the belly as someone came up behind him, and then everything went to black.

XXX

Sinclair groaned as he returned slowly to consciousness, finding himself bruised and bleeding, lying on a icy stone floor in pitch darkness. Gathering himself together and taking inventory of his injuries, he staggered to his bare feet and called out.  
“Where are you? Who are you? What do you want?” Silence answered. Bent over at the waist from the pain, he reached out and slowly inched along until he touched an irregularly surfaced rock wall. He paced forward, feeling out the dimensions of the small chamber, unable to see anything at all. At one point, his foot stumbled into nothingness but he was able to pull back before he could fall into a foul-smelling hole. “Where the hell am I? What's going on?” he asked himself aloud as he reached the seam of a door. He shouldered against it but nothing moved.

There had been no warning signs of trouble at all yesterday; far, far from it. He had just been approved by both the Grey Council and the Clan Elders to take the role of Anla'shok Na and lead the Rangers. Even Neroon had consented, telling him only that he “may assume the title and function as Ranger One, but not the designation of Entil'Zha until you can prove yourself worthy of that title.” Jenimer, the Chosen One, had personally escorted him to his new home and he'd toured the Ranger training camp with Satai Rathenn, and had even been invited to address the small complement of men that constituted his troops. Everything, if surprising and happening extremely fast, seemed to be coming together well. That evening he'd had a decent meal, read a little more about Valen and the history of the Rangers and then turned in for the night, looking forward to beginning his new role in the morning. And then, abruptly, all of this; Delenn at his bedside, the midnight ambush, the vicious fight. He winced but smiled faintly to himself; at least he hadn't gone down easily; he'd made them work for their victory.

But why? Why was this happening to him? What was happening to him? He disliked a mystery, especially one so unforeseen. What clues could he possibly have missed? Gingerly sitting back down against a wall and rubbing his sore knuckles, he tried to make sense of it all. There weren't many facts to work with. He touched the wall again. It wasn't smooth and crystalline like all of the rock he'd seen buildings constructed out of in his short time in Tuzanor, so maybe he'd been taken someplace else, into the mountains. And clearly, he wasn't aboard a ship. Those were facts one and two. Apparently Delenn was in opposition to the rest of the Grey Council, the majority of whom had turned against them. Earth would have done the same. The Council, Rathenn said, had made a ruling, so there'd been some kind of nighttime meeting. Very unusual. Facts three and four. They'd enlisted the help of the Warrior Caste, or perhaps the Warrior Caste had taken control of the Council. Every government had its intrigue; you couldn't rule any possibility out. Whatever had occurred, it was with lightning speed, especially for the Minbari, who weren't exactly known for their impulsiveness. Except … his thoughts strayed naturally back to the beginning of the Earth-Minbari War. Alright, there was that. But truth be told, if you looked at the situation objectively, you couldn't really hold the swiftness of their response back then against them. He returned to the here and now. What about the Rangers? There had been no sign of their involvement; his immediate predecessor as Anla'Shok Na, Turval, had not been there, nor had Sech Durhan. Either they had consented behind the scenes to the attack or they simply had no knowledge of or say in it. That was a seventh fact. But the Vorlons … Ulkesh had been there, a silent and ominous witness. Strangely, the day before Ulkesh had seemed to be on his side: “it is time. It begins now. Forget all but that. Come,” he had intoned, and right after Sinclair had been informed of the decision to make him Ranger One. Usually there was some double-meaning implied when either Kosh or Ulkesh spoke, but that remark appeared atypically straight-forward. And yet he could only conclude now that the Vorlons were in on it, whatever it was. Nothing seemed to happen on Minbar without the consultation and approval of the Vorlon government. So that was it, Sinclair sighed, that was all he knew. Eight facts.

Careful to avoid the latrine hole, he resumed his search of the cell on his hands and knees, feeling around the central area. His hand struck something and he picked it up. It was heavy and he fingered it carefully, then shook it. It seemed to be some kind of canteen, and it was full. Only then did it strike him how thirsty he was. It had been a vigorous, if brief, fight. He opened it and smelled the contents cautiously, then poured out some of it into his hand and licked it with the tip of his tongue. It had no smell and tasted unadulterated. That made sense; if they'd wanted him dead, he wouldn't be there, held captive; they'd have killed him on the spot. So he had another fact then; they wanted something from him or needed him for some purpose. That meant eventually someone would show up and he'd be given more to work with. Nodding to himself, he took a sip from the canteen and again tasting nothing, emptied a long draught into his dry mouth. Within a few short moments, however, he found himself feeling dizzy, then profoundly sleepy. Dammit, he cursed to himself, there was something in the water after all. He tried to shake it off, blinking his eyes rapidly in the dark and slapping his own face, but the drug took hold of him and he sprawled back out on the floor, asleep.

 

XXX

 

He woke back up with a headache, a fuzzy feeling in his head and cotton mouth. How long had he been out? Hours? Days? It was impossible to tell. He crawled over to the hole and urinated. It had to have been a good while judging by the strength of the urge. Back on his feet, he stumbled forward, arms outstretched, across the prison to the door, where his foot struck something new. A bowl. Food. He couldn't help but feel angry at the implied insult; did they really think he was going to be stupid enough to fall for that twice? After all, unless the water and the food had been left by two different parties, it was likely doped as well. There was no way he was going to eat that food and lest he be tempted in the future, he returned to the latrine and dumped the contents of the bowl into it, then tossed the bowl in for good measure. But the fact that it was there meant someone had come to his cell and that it mattered to them that he stayed alive. That was something to be grateful for.

Back to the door. The first responsibility of a prisoner after all, was to escape. But it was seamless; not even the thinnest ray of light could be discerned at any of its four edges. He conducted another search of the cell, finding the canteen refilled, but no sign of anything else, no other possible way in or out. Hmm. He contemplated whether the hole in the floor led to a larger sewer system or not, but there hadn't been much of an echo when he pissed into it, so that seemed unlikely and unworthy of investigation. It seemed there was nothing he could do but wait for someone to open that door. It had always irritated Catherine how patient he could be. Over twenty years of practicing meditation made him good at waiting. He sat and observed his breathing for a long, long time.

Still, the absolute darkness and silence was oppressive. It was so dark that he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. He saw hallucinatory patches of light from the alpha rays of some minor radioactive isotopes. That might indicate he was underground. Or perhaps it was from the intrinsic noise in his retina. An interesting phenomenon, he thought to himself, but not one he knew much about. Eigengrau or visual noise, it was called, and that exhausted his knowledge on the subject.

He changed his mind about using the water and employed some of it to wash the crusty dried blood he could feel if not see off his face and hands. There was stubble on his cheeks, but it was far from a beard. Maybe a couple of days' worth? There was an especially tender spot under his left eye. His right wrist was sore and his shoulders ached and he was immediately winded and in pain when he breathed in deeply. He'd really taken a beating. He wondered if it was the work of the Wind Songs again. Eleven years later and they still had it out for him; even Deathwalker had said so. But no, Neroon was a Star Rider and the Clans didn't mix. Strange, that Neroon; he'd really thought they were making progress towards a mutual peace after his acquittal over the false accusation of him making an assassination attempt on Jenimer. Damn, a lot of strange twists and turns had happened in the short period since Earth had sent him to Minbar. 

At least he could still count on Delenn. Their friendship was the one thing he was able to rely on here and he was glad to have her loyalty. Why hadn't she better prepared him for what had been about to happen, though? The only other time he'd seen her lose her cool like that was when she first saw the Soul Hunter on B5. If only when she'd woken him up she'd said a word about why they were in trouble. If there'd just been more time … he thought about failing to get to her before she'd entered the Chrysalis. They always seemed to have bad timing when it came to her telling him anything important. Ah, but their bad timing was nothing like the kind he and Catherine had. Here she didn't even know he'd been transferred from Babylon 5 and if he didn't do something about getting out, she might never learn what happened to him at all. That idea made him mad. He stood back up and paced around a bit to burn off some of his frustration. Nine paces by seven. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

It might have been an hour before he grew weary of stalking from one side of the room to the other; then again, it might have been five. The only way he could really judge how much time was passing was by guessing how long it had been since he'd last had to empty his bladder, but he wasn't drinking anything, so really, that method had become unreliable. He remembered the sensory deprivation trials from his first year in the Academy and how time had dilated. His buddy and wingman Bill Mitchell had been impressed by how much longer Sinclair had stayed awake and alert in the tank than he had, but in the silent darkness now, he found himself quickly growing tired. Were the Minbari trying to torture him with this? No, it took months to break someone that way. They had to know that. Still, he was so tired. He started reciting poetry to stay awake; Tennyson, Dylan Thomas, Hamlet's soliloquy, anything that came to mind. Starfury system check procedures. The preamble to the Earth Alliance Constitution. The Rosary. His favorite Psalms. Dirty drinking songs. How many languages could he swear in and how many different curse words did he know? Where was everybody? Where was he? How much longer would they keep him here? Why was he here? 

He rubbed his eyes and was repaid with psychedelic patterns of illusionary colors. That had a different name than the other kind of lights. Phosphene. Something to do with the oxygen supply in your eyeballs. Why was he remembering random things like that at a time like this? Back to meditation. But no, he was too sleepy to concentrate. And what did it matter if he went to sleep? He'd be on his feet the second that door opened. If he was going to rest should he just go ahead and drink the drugged water? No, what if they'd put something worse in it this time? You could go at least three days before dehydration became life threatening if you were out of the sunlight and didn't exert yourself. Surely it couldn't have been that long; he wasn't all that thirsty. He'd probably heal faster if he slept. Might as well give into it. He slumped down next to the door with his head and shoulders against the wall and closed his eyes.

XXX

When he awoke once more, Sinclair felt especially strange and then quickly realized he was hooked up intravenously to something; was it more drugs or were they feeding him electrolytes to keep him going? Regardless of what it was, he tore the needle out of his left arm and tossed over the stand. How had he slept through the door being opened? Might they have pumped in some kind of morph gas? It was an unsettling development. 

He returned to the latrine for a long, strong piss and then threw the IV bag into the hole simply for the brief feeling of victory it gave him. He could feel blood trickling down his forearm from where the IV port had been and he applied pressure to it using the hem of his shirt. He touched his face. He was clean-shaven. They must have realized he could use his whiskers as a means of measuring time, and he had to admit he was thoroughly disoriented by now. If they were trying to throw him off his game, they were doing a good job of it.

But why? Why, why, why? What could this all be about? You didn't bestow honors and responsibilities on someone one day and then beat them and imprison them the next without some good reason. Did it have something to do with his other job, Ambassador from Earth to Minbar? But it had been obvious to the Rathenn and the others before it was to him that Earth really didn't care about the appointment at all. It was just a way to get him off of Babylon 5 without having to answer a lot of questions from the press. All he knew for sure was that whatever was going on, Delenn was opposed to it and strongly, given that she had apparently disobeyed a direct order from the rest of the Council. And Jenimer had been so friendly to him; could the Nine make a decision and act upon it if he didn't approve? What might they have met and ruled upon that could possibly have something to do with him? He was operating from a position of ignorance, not something he ever allowed to happen under normal circumstances. No, he always made a point of knowing everything he could about a given situation even before it arose if he could predict it. Hell, he spent a lot of time learning things just for the sake of learning them. Who knew when you'd want to know the term eigengrau, he laughed to himself.

Speaking of anticipating things, he realized, there was something new to work with in there. He felt around for the IV stand. It was a long rod with a hook on one end and four small wheels on the other. Maybe he could use it as a weapon, a way to deflect another denn'bok blow if one was thrown at him. Or to help jam the door open if it ever moved. Yes, it might come in handy. Best to keep it close at hand.

He rubbed his upper arms briskly; it was really quite cold. He wondered if there was any latitude at which Minbar wasn't a chilly place. An ice age had started about two hundred years ago, he knew, but even before that most of the planet's surface was glaciated. That was why the Minbari wore so many layers of clothes. Who'd ever think, though, that such a large proportion of a space-faring race would walk around in robes? Drapery composed a great deal of a Vorlon's encounter suit too. What he wouldn't give to get a peek under there sometime. He wondered if the Minbari knew what a Vorlon really looked like. There had been that one time in Kosh's quarters when he'd just turned away and there was a very bright flash of light when Kosh returned to his suit from behind the screen, but that was the only hint about them he had. Dr. Kyle had kept what he'd learned to himself. Just as mysterious, three years later, were the Vorlon's motivations. What was their agenda? Why did he get the impression Kosh's was different than Ulkesh's? And what was their real relationship to the Minbari? Were the Vorlons setting them up to be canon fodder against the Shadows or were they going to go up against them directly? The answer to that would definitely impact how he handled the Rangers … he stopped himself short. He was a prisoner now, not the new leader of the Rangers. Funny how easily he forgot that, even now. 

He got up on his feet and started pacing around to try to warm up. His back was turned toward the door when he heard footsteps and then a voice.  
“You want to speak to him; now's your chance,” he heard someone say in Lenn'a, the Warrior Caste language. He spun around, grabbed the stand with both hands and stood poised and ready at the door. When it opened, he was blinded by the sudden light entering the room. Then someone entered the cell; Delenn, he recognized, and as fast as it had opened, the door closed again. He had missed his chance. He tossed aside the stand.  
“Delenn!” he exclaimed as she fell against him.  
“Jeffrey! What have they done to you? Are you alright?”  
“I'm fine, fine. What are you doing here? What are either of us doing here?” he paused. “How long has it been? How long have I been held here and why?”  
“Ten days.” She stepped back out of his arms.  
“Ten days?” he echoed incredulously. “How can that be … how long was I unconscious? Never mind. Delenn, what happened? What's going on?”  
“Oh Jeffrey, so much, so very, very much...” he could hear her gown rustling in the dark as she moved around with agitation. “The Shadows, Jeffrey. Earth has joined forces with the Shadows!”  
“What?” His heart began to race.  
“Ten days ago our largest colony was struck without warning and destroyed. That is how we learned about the dark alliance between your people and the Shadows. The Council met as soon as we received word ...” She drew in a deep and ragged breath. “We are at war again, Jeffrey; Minbar and Earth, we're back at war.” Sinclair could feel something unfamiliar begin to rise in himself: fear.  
“War? But your belief in the transference of our souls … Minbari do not kill Minbari ...”  
“Your people started it, Jeffrey. I, I argued against it, I believe we should find another way, but I was the lone voice against combat. It is a matter of self-preservation. The rest of the Council was united, all of them. They said we held back eleven years ago, we let Earth live and ten days ago it cost us a hundred million lives.”  
“My God ...”  
“With the Vorlon's help we have already turned the tide. We're in position now to make our final simultaneous strikes … the Human's base on Proxima has already been destroyed. Next are Babylon 5, Europa, Io, Mars and finally Earth. The Vorlons have provided mass drivers … not a single target will be allowed to escape total annihilation!”  
“My God. Delenn, no,” he protested weakly.  
“I am afraid so. Anyplace where a single Human lives will be destroyed.”  
“Your people can't hold every Human responsible for what our government has done … we suspected Clark had pulled off a coup … once word spreads, there'll be opposition, rebellion, just give us a chance ...”  
“It is not up to me anymore; the Council's decision is final. Its will shall be done. That is how it is with us, Jeffrey; when we act, we act as one. That is our strength. There is nothing now that you or I can say to change anything. Humanity has chosen destruction and we are merely the means, not the cause.”  
“I refuse to accept this, there has to be something ...”  
“No, there is nothing.”  
“So why am I here, Delenn?” he asked furiously, “why have they imprisoned me instead of killing me? Is it Valen's soul? Is his the only one your people care about?”  
“They're coming for us,” Delenn declared instead of answering. Sinclair pushed her to the side and this time he was ready. When the door opened he struck out with the IV pole at the first person he saw.

Once again Delenn begged him not to fight, but there was no way he could be stopped except by brute force; it was that or surrender to despair and fright, something he would not allow. He whirled into action with his makeshift weapon, lashing out at anyone and everyone who tried to stop him. He knew his efforts were completely useless; there were six Warriors plus Neroon, but he was incapable of surrender. In short order, it was over, he was beaten, and they were dragging him down the hall, still struggling futilely, Delenn following after them with her own verbal protests.

He knew where he was going to end up before he ever saw the circle of nine lights, each occupied by a swathed, grey figure except for one spot, Delenn's, that was conspicuously empty. The triangle was hanging there to the side and when he cast his eyes on it, his heart leapt into his throat. It was happening again, just as he remembered it, just as he regularly dreamt in nightmares. He was alone and helpless. He resisted again as they bound him to it, fear at last taking hold of him. He tried again to wrestle the feeling down with anger.  
“Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?” The grey figures stood silently, but then Rathenn pulled back his hood and stepped up to him, moving to within inches of his face, a friend no longer.  
“Your testimony,” he spat. “You are the reason we surrendered eleven years ago when we could have prevented all of this, when we had your kind on your knees. Then the Council made the grievous error of stopping the War because of you. Who better now to serve as witness?”  
“Witness?”  
“Yes, witness,” Rathenn declared, “you will be, what is the Human expression? Ah yes, 'the last man standing.' The lone survivor of the accursed Human race. You will watch the extinction of your species. And then we will release you, to wander to the end of your days as a reminder to all who encounter you just what is the price for joining the Shadows. Behold.” He waved his arm and in the center of the room Sinclair saw his Station, Babylon 5, orbiting silently and unknowingly around Epsilon 3.  
“Don't do this! There's a better way! You just have to find it! Do you want me to beg? I'm begging. Reconsider! In the Name of God, in Valen's Name, don't ...” The figure holding the Triluminary Staff stepped forward, the staff held high, and then dropped his arm. At that instant, a fleet of Vorlon and Minbari ships burst through the jumpgate, immediately firing on the Station. “NO!” he cried in raw terror as the vision Lady Ladira had shown him came true and Babylon 5 exploded into a billion pieces. He turned his head to look away only to see in succession Io, Europa, Mars and then Earth … “NO! No, no, no!” He sagged against his iron bonds and dropped his head down, overcome by the unthinkable. Someone untied him and he fell to his knees weeping wretchedly. “My God, oh my God,” he whispered to himself. The room was otherwise silent for a long, long time.

And then the lights came up. The illusion of the Grey Council's chambers was gone.  
“It is over,” Rathenn said, offering a hand to Sinclair to help him up. Sinclair just knelt there, looking around in complete confusion. The others were pulling back their hoods, some of them even getting out of the bogus Council robes entirely. There he saw Jenimer, Turval, Durhan, Venak, his embassy assistant, and four of the Minbari Rangers he had met just a few days before, along with Delenn and Neroon.  
“What? What the hell is going on?” Sinclair growled.  
“It is Mora'Dum,” Turval said, “the application of terror. Every Ranger is tested thus, although most subjects do not require such elaborate scenarios. We knew, however, that it would be extremely difficult to elicit the proper response from you. You are a soldier and a particularly brave man.”  
“Now that you have experienced and survived terror, you will be capable of employing it yourself when necessary,” Durhan elaborated. At this point, Sinclair was on his feet and outraged, he turned on Delenn.  
“You lied to me! How could you do this to me, all of you?”  
“There were no lies; your emotions were quite real. We were only acting as necessary to elicit the proper response,” she said matter-of-factly.  
“Then none of this actually happened? It was all a game to you?”  
“Oh no, no game, Jeffrey, or I should say, Anla'shok Na. It was an exercise. I assure you it was extremely painful for all of us to perform our required parts over the last two days.”  
“Two days? Not ten?”  
“I apologize,” offered Neroon surprisingly, “for any injuries my men and I inflicted upon you. But you would not have believed any of this otherwise.”  
“Apologize …?”  
“We tried not to seriously hurt you. That is why we administered a drug to knock you out during our first encounter.”  
“So that was faked too … and what I just saw ...”  
“Computer simulations only,” Rathenn assured him. “Although Ranger intel has it that there were at one time Shadow ships on Mars, we have no reason to believe there is any alliance between them and your people.”  
“Lies! This was all lies! Only two days you say? Well this was two days that culminated in hell for me!”  
“Yes. That was the goal of the exercise,” Turval reiterated. “It is said that Valen instituted Mora'Dum after the War was over so that peacetime recruits would experience a taste of the most primal and debilitating emotion. Without that a Ranger might be unfamiliar with it and unprepared if he should feel it in real life, at a moment when he could least afford it.”  
“The Warrior Caste has its own, similar training,” Neroon explained. “That, and our … personal history, is why I was asked to participate in this trial for you.”  
“I can't believe you,” Sinclair looked around the room, “that you who presented yourself to me as my friends, would do this to me!”  
“Yes, that is a typical and unfortunate response. But it would be cruel to allow total strangers to witness you at your weakest. Especially as we have entrusted ourselves and the Anla'Shok to you,” said Turval.  
“You maintained your strength and composure nearly to the end,” Neroon assured him. “I am most humbled to have witnessed that. Truly you are worthy enough to think of yourself as a warrior.”  
“I, I am so angry I don't know what to say.” Sinclair said, slamming a fist into the palm of his left hand.  
“That is understandable. But Jeffrey, can you not understand why we did this for you?” Delenn implored.  
“For me? For me? More like to me … But ... yes ...” he said slowly, reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose I can. But did it have to be that? Did it have to be me witnessing the end of mankind … again?”  
“You are the one who can answer that question, Ranger One,” Rathenn said gently. “We could only surmise. Would anything less have dismayed you so, terrified you?” Despite himself and his righteous anger, Sinclair considered the question.  
“No, I suppose not,” he realized. If he'd been anything less than physically and emotionally trapped, anything less than hopeless, he still could have mustered up self-control. He had already done so, enduring his imprisonment as a mere inconvenience. But just now he'd been utterly incapable of doing or saying anything that would matter at all, while even at The Line, there had been the possibility of one last act to fight back, to exact a toll. Strange to know now that wasn't the worst moment in his life. It was kind of a relief to actually recognize and feel that, deep down inside. Could it possibly be that they'd just done him a kind of favor? Was this awful ritual worth it? “I think, I think I'd like to be left alone right now,” Sinclair said quietly, his anger abating. “Where are we?”  
“Ranger training camp.” He shook his head slowly; that made sense. He sighed, squared his shoulders and walked to the door, finding his way out of the building into the late afternoon light. He wandered through the compound until he ended up at the Chapel, and walking under the roofed colonnade he made his way over to the feet of the statue of Valen. He sat down on the bench there. The stylized figure looked down at him benignly in the lavender light. 

The application and survival of terror. It was brilliant really, if he considered it dispassionately. Was there nothing that warrior-priest hadn't thought of? Was he a madman or a genius, or maybe a little of both? And now they wanted him to succeed him as Ranger One, and ultimately, as the second Entil'Zha. Was it all that 'Minbari soul' nonsense or was it actually due to something they saw in him personally? He lowered his eyes to the middle distance and letting his eyes unfocus, wondered. When he lifted them again to regard the angular planes of the statue's face, it was with another thought entirely. Could he do it? Could he actually subject other men and women to what he'd just been through? He surely could order them to fight and even die; he'd done that before in EarthForce, although never without searching for alternatives first, but this, this right now seemed worse than death. He was shaken to his core and had no idea how long it would be before he was over it. Could he do it to someone else? It was the Ranger way; for a thousand years Minbari before him had to have wrestled with that question until they could manage an affirmative response. He supposed he would have to as well. Eventually.

There was the faint sound of shifting fabric and he took his eyes off of Valen, finding Delenn standing beside him. The sight of her with hair was still so strange. What was it like to be half yourself and half something else? He supposed he'd never know because it seemed too sensitive a question to ask.  
“I must return to Babylon 5 tomorrow,” she said. “But we have tonight. Would you join me in drinking a pot of tea? It is li'luta season and I have a batch of first-picked leaves.” Sinclair managed a half-smile at her.  
“Yes,” he said, rising to his feet and offering her his arm, “yes, I think I'd like that.” And with a last glance at Valen, he followed her into town.


End file.
